Dream Pollution
by Green Owl
Summary: Logan, from all angles. Plenty of angst, a lot of Marie, some Jean, and a little bit of backstory from songwriter Jim Steinman and singer Marvin "Meat Loaf" Aday, who brought us the rock opera known as "Bat Out of Hell."
1. Objects in the Rearview Mirror

Title: "Objects in the Rearview Mirror"  
Series: Dream Pollution  
Author: Green Owl  
Word Count: 2,057  
Pairing: Wolverine + Rogue  
Timeline: Unknown  
Rating: PG-13 (sensuality)  
Summary: "She used her body just like a bandage, she used my body just like a wound..."

Disclaimer: I do not buy, sell, or process this mind!crack, I just abuse the hell out of it.

* * *

Memory.

9 years old.

You couldn't remember much before that year. When I look back, I think that you recalled your childhood as one long, hot summer. No school, no sitting still, no homework. Life was good.

You had a best friend, close as a brother. He was small, skinny, smart as a whip. Made the rest of the kids in school hate him because he could spell "Saskatchewan" and they couldn't even find it on the map. Mama was proud of you because you protected him from the bullies. Hell, you were the biggest bully of them all, but for some reason, you respected him.

He could take you on an adventure or two with his storytelling. You went to the Caribbean, the South Seas, Africa, Norway, Argentina when he made up his tales. You became pirates, explorers, Vikings, aviators. Ready to conquer the world, yes, you were. Two boys with nothing better to do than dream of a life far, far away from your sleepy little hometown.

It was war then. Those pilots from down under used that fallow field on the farm for take-offs and landings. They were something, those Australian boys. Young, cocky, with that peculiar accent you both tried to imitate around your mothers to make them laugh. And your mama needed to laugh more. She was lonely. Her eyes got sad once in awhile, but then she'd smile again, and it would be all right.

One of the pilots liked to come around a lot. Mama used to say he was courting Aunt Katie. You thought Aunt Katie was much too good for the likes of him, but the pilot used to let you and your best friend explore his plane, so you tolerated him. It was one of those old biplanes, bright yellow with a green propeller. You liked to pretend that that you were both pilots in the war, getting ready to drop bombs on the stinking Krauts.

"Pilot to Bombardier! Pilot to Bombardier! Bombs away!"

"Right in the pickle barrel as always, Captain!"

"Any good-lookin' fro-lines down there, Bombardier? We'll be needin' some down time soon!"

That day was brilliant. The sun had never shone so bright, the grass was so green it hurt your eyes to look at it. The wind had picked up and was sending the two of you into a delirium of restless energy. It was his idea to play in the plane.

You were just outside the barn when the propeller started. It pulled him out of the shadows, into the golden sunlight. He let out a war whoop that would have made an Indian proud and as the plane taxied down the dirt road, faster and faster, you ran alongside trying to keep up.

When he took off into the sunset, you cheered him on. As he soared into the sky, you waved. When he disappeared over the next hill, as you watched the plane dip out of sight, you knew.

You saw black cloud of smoke rising up into the pale blue sky and you knew summer was over.

* * *

Memory.

13 years old.

Winter came. It was so cold that blisters were breaking out on your hands and lips. The sky was ashes and the trees, stripped of their leaves, had turned into charred, blackened weeds that strained into the sky. It was your father's birthday.

Mama and Aunt Katie dressed up for the party. You thought Aunt Katie was the prettiest thing you'd ever seen. Mama was beautiful, but Aunt Katie, she "walked in beauty like the night." It was years before you read those words, but you knew that they described her perfectly.

She wore a pale green dress. You told her she looked like a dark lily. She hugged you to her and told you that you were a poet, that the girls should watch out when you grew up.

You saw her later that night, rinsing something white in the sink. Thin red water was slipping down the drain. You asked her if she was all right. She smiled but something was wrong.

She was afraid. You could…you could smell it on her. It was mixed with other smells that were coppery, salty, musky. You saw her tremble. She flinched when you tried to touch her.

Two weeks later, you found her pale green dress in the barn. It was torn and crumpled, with stains that couldn't be washed out.

Two months later, pretty Aunt Katie was dead. You heard the words "baby" and "scraped" and "bleeding" when the doctor spoke to Mama in a hushed whisper. Behind a closed door. In a room on the other side of the house.

The bruises began to appear on Mama's face and neck, always after your father came home on a Saturday night. He beat her senseless week after week then apologized the morning after, begging her to take him back. She lost weight, some of her teeth, then her dignity and her self-respect.

She couldn't keep anything down and was coughing up blood at the end. She died gripping your hand, her nails gouging holes into your palm that disappeared when she let go. You father got drunk again that night, and stayed that way for years. He started hitting you after the funeral.

He knew you were different. No matter what he used, belt, chain, his hand, you always healed. The perfect son to abuse, you didn't showed any of your scars. They never stayed more than a moment before they healed. God, how you hated him.

You left home at sixteen, never looked back. Alcohol became your constant companion, but it was an empty relationship. You went through bottles of Jack, Johnny, and Jim, but never felt anything more than the slow burn as it went down your throat. You would always be stone cold sober, never able to drown out his voice inside your head, saying things that no child should ever hear from a parent.

After all your father put you through, you still went home for his funeral.

You read from the Book of Job and helped carry the coffin. You put flowers on four graves. And you cried for all of them, even him.

You buried your childhood there. You were on your own. Winter had finally ended.

* * *

Memory.

17 years old.

You fell in love for the first time.

No big surprise that she had dark hair and eyes. Her daddy was dirt poor and she never had anything nice to wear, but she was always neat and clean. You loved how the sun caught the red highlights in her hair and turned her skin golden brown, and you went to sleep every night imagining what it would be like to touch her. She was a year older than you. Her name was Julie.

You worked in her daddy's garage, slept in the office. You were the best mechanic in town. You could take apart anything and put it back together so that it worked even better than before. You never got tired and always did high quality work. Little old ladies brought their nice Cadillacs and Buicks to you. Business was booming thanks to your magic hands. Julie finally noticed you.

She came around to bring you and her daddy lunch one day and teased you about your attempt at growing a beard. You teased her back, right in front of her old man. Funny that he didn't seem to mind.

It was agony when she started keeping the books. The teasing went back and forth like that for days, weeks. You were frustrated and exhilarated at the same time, wondering when push would come to shove.

The night she graduated from high school, you took her out for dinner and a movie. You don't remember the movie, only that she wore a faded pink dress and a white sweater. The best you could afford was a few hamburgers and the drive-in, but she whispered into your ear that she was having a wonderful time.

Goodnight came and she kissed you. It was your first, and it was perfect. To this day you still remember the faint taste of cola, popcorn, her lip-gloss. The way she smelled, like roses and sunshine. The way she felt, all soft and sleek and smooth, and how much you wanted to kiss her forever.

Eight days passed. It was a Sunday night and the air was warm and soft. You were the only one in the garage, working overtime on a white Chevy convertible, when she came to you.

She wore a white dress and her hair was down around her shoulders. She was so beautiful that you didn't know what to say. She took you to the sink, and you washed away the grime and dirt. She put your hands around her waist.

"Daddy's sending me to the city tomorrow," she said. "I'm going to stay with my grandmother."

"Why?" you asked.

She didn't answer. Her eyes were wet with tears.

"I'll come with you!"

"No," she said, placed a finger against your lips. "I have to go alone."

You don't know how you ended up in the backseat, you just remember the rush of lust and emotion coiled so tightly together inside of you expanding to fill every part of your body as she wrapped hers around you. The hot, wet heat of her mouth, the glorious scent of her hair, the resilient skin where her neck met her shoulders, all new and unexplored places that burned themselves onto the map of your mind as you made love with her on the last night of spring.

She was gentle with you, showed you how to touch her and give her pleasure with soft words and sighs of encouragement. You were a quick student and she herself learned a few things in those precious hours you had together. The ecstasy was blinding and bittersweet as she cried out into your shoulder.

You never told her, but she knew. She felt it in that moment as you fell into her arms and held her close. She felt your tears on her breasts, the shuddering of your body that had nothing to do with satisfaction, the way your fingers gripped her flesh like you would never let go.

"I love you," she whispered. You fell asleep in her arms. You don't know for how long, but when you woke it was dawn and she was gone. You never saw her again.

You cried in the shower that morning as you washed the last of her away. The scratch marks on your back had healed and you cursed your gift. There was nothing left to remind you.

She broke your heart, but you never blamed her. It wasn't her fault you couldn't be enough of a reason for her to stay.

Her old man put his hand on your shoulder and wished you well when you left to fight in the war. He never mentioned her, but you could feel his quiet understanding. His daughter was a mystery to him, too.

You can be philosophical about it now, but a part of you wishes you could have one more night in her arms, one more chance to hear her say those three little words that carried you through the hellish heat of the jungle. You want to thank her for that moment you knew love for the first time.

Sometimes you walk in the woods at the end of spring, remembering her with a smile.

* * *

The leaves are turning colors. It's getting cold and everyone else is wearing gloves and scarves, so I don't feel so out of place. I've always loved the smell of the earth and the trees in autumn, and as I walk along the forest path, I feel you with me.

Sometimes you overwhelm me as you drift in and out of my mind. I've tried to fight you or forget you, but I've found it's best to just let you be. You don't frighten me anymore like you used to in the beginning.

Don't be afraid to remember, Logan.

Needles and drowning and pain are there, yes, but so is laughter and forgiveness.

And love.

* * *

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

The title is from my favorite track off the album _Bat Out of Hell II: Back to Hell_ by Meat Loaf and Jim Steinman.

The format was inspired by "The Little Coochie Snorter That Could" from Eve Ensler's _The Vagina Monologues_.

Many thanks to Lachlan and Lill (_For the Moment_, 1992) and Anna-Blue-Banana, charter member of Logan-holics Anonymous and beta-reader extraordinaire.


	2. All Revved Up With No Place to Go

Title: "All Revved Up With No Place to Go"  
Series: Dream Pollution  
Author: Green Owl  
Word Count: 3,240  
Pairing: Wolverine + Rogue  
Timeline: Unknown  
Rating: PG-13 (sensuality)  
Summary: "Baby, I'm a hunter in the dark of the forest, I've been stalking you"

Disclaimer: I do not buy, sell, or process this mind!crack, I just abuse the hell out of it.

* * *

He found her in a seedy little dive on the corner of Clemens and Talent called "Easy Street," pounding away on an upright black-finish Falcone that had seen better days while a young Bruce Springsteen-wannabe wailed away into the microphone.

It was Saturday night.

He had no trouble picking up her scent through the low-hanging layer of smoke, the rich aroma of hops and barley, and the stench of unwashed bodies. She smelled like Secret, baby powder and the Crabtree & Evelyn body lotion he'd bought her for her birthday last year. He'd suffered through at least twenty different assaults on his nose until he found "lily of the valley" – not too strong, not too cloying, innocent and carnal at the same time.

Both he and the Wolverine were able to swap a few nightmares for some hot, sweaty, fantasies of his baby girl and her soft, silky – _oh yeah, that's it, darlin'_ – very naked skin and that goddamn lotion.

It was Saturday night in the middle of July.

He walked up to the bar, bought a beer, and made his way to the back where it was dark and anonymous.

It was Saturday night in the middle of July and Marie was on fire.

She was writhing on the piano bench like she was part of the goddamn floorshow, tendrils of her brandy-colored hair clinging to her throat and beads of sweat sliding down her temples to trace her jawline.

He caught himself growling low in his throat. The Wolverine was enjoying the voyeuristic interlude a little too much for his own good. He pulled out a Brazilian and went through the comforting ritual of clipping and lighting it.

Her fingers were slamming down on the keys, following the boy's gravelly voice and gritty strumming as he sang his anthem of teenage lust and desperation. The song finished with a few intricate chord progressions and a bit of tricky melody-work before she faded away gently to a round of hearty applause.

He fought the urge to gut every single one of the good ol' boys who were whistling and hollering and treating her like a fucking piece of meat. Thank God none of them tried to make a move on her as she headed for the bar, checking her black lace gloves and smoothing her damp hair back from her face.

He felt like someone had sucker-punched him when she caught sight of him sitting at her table and lit up like a kid's face on Christmas morning. She grabbed her beer and made her way to him, her shocks bouncing with every step she took.

"Hey there, sugar," she said in a normal tone, trusting his hearing. "Mind if I join you?"

He gave her a cocky smile and kicked a chair out for her.

"Such a gentleman," she said, slipping into it gracefully. "So what brings you to my neck of the woods?"

He gestured to his mug and cigar. "Little drinkin', little smokin', maybe a little ass-kickin' if I'm in the mood. How 'bout you?"

She sat forward, leaning her elbows on the table, lost in thought. "Just getting away from the madness for a while. It's kinda nice finding a place where I can play a Jim Steinman tune for a crowd that appreciates it."

"You mean Jubes and Kitty don't like rock opera?"

"Not as much as we do."

He grinned and planted his cigar between his teeth.

"So how're ya feelin'?"

She tipped up the bottle and he watched the long smooth column of her throat work as she swallowed.

_Lord have mercy._

She put the bottle down on the table and ran her thumb over the label. "Better. The boys were getting a bit too loud tonight."

"What 'boys'? These wannabe badass bikers?" He growled and cracked his knuckles.

"No, sugar. My boys: David, Erik, Johnny, Bobby…you." She lifted her eyes from the bottle and looked into his. "Sometimes it feels like I have so little left that's me that I have to go looking for it."

"Like a sleazy bar on the wrong side of town?"

Her smile was a bit lopsided. "Well, the piano is a little out of tune, but I've learned to take what I can get."

He frowned at that. Something in her tone made the Wolverine edgy.

"So what happened? You were gone like a bat outta hell."

"What do you think happened?" She shook her head and her tone was gentle and sad. "Bobby told me I had no business cleaning out John's room. I told him he's delusional that John will ever come back. He said I don't know John as well as he does. I said, 'Well, I did get a pretty good idea of his state of mind that last day.' And Bobby came right back with 'You had no right to go prying into John's mind'. Then I really lost it and told him I wouldn't have had to if he'd had the balls or common sense to try and counteract John when he was out there trying to roast those cops. Then Bobby told me he couldn't because when we…when we kissed in his bedroom, it took most of his power out of him. He had barely enough to freeze his momma's tea."

She dropped her head into her hands, her voice low against the sound of the jukebox, but still audible to his enhanced hearing. "And now all they're inside my head, arguing all the damn time over who's right about humans and mutants. And Erik is siding with John, David's siding with Bobby and you…you're just staying neutral because you think John's nuts and you _hate_ Bobby."

She lifted her chin and her eyes pinned him against the wall.

"Why, Logan? Why do you hate him?"

He sighed, but remained silent.

She extended her gloved hand. "Come on. We've always been honest with each other."

He reached for her, then reconsidered and pulled back. "It's complicated, darlin'."

"Quantum physics is complicated, Logan. Learning to speak Navajo is complicated. Telling me why the 'you' inside of me resents Bobby should be a piece of cake."

He remained silent.

"It's not like I don't know how much you care about me," she said, her eyes drifting to his hands.

God, how she loved his hands, those hard, strong, magical appendages that brought her back from the darkness, birthed her for a second time that warm autumn night on Liberty Island.

His head snapped up.

"I've known for years," she whispered. "But I'm not a little girl anymore. Isn't it time to put the psychological shotgun and shovel away and let me grow up?"

He reached out and took her hand, squeezed it gently.

"Hey, I promised to protect you. That includes mentally snarling at any horny teenage boys who come sniffin'. But I see your point. You're twenty-one and you don't need me pullin' that kinda shit from time to time."

"Just for the record, sugar, it's _all_ the time. Especially when I wear this top."

The black fishnet encased a skintight black camisole that was molded onto her tiny ribcage and amazing breasts.

_Torture never looked so fuckin' tasty._

She giggled and he relaxed. Strange how seeing her dimples and that itty-bitty gap between her teeth calmed the beast inside much more effectively than his attempts to reason with it.

"Maybe we should go bareback one more time so I won't feel paranoid going out on dates," she suggested, her left hand going for the buttons at her wrist.

"No!" he said, snatching his hand away.

She stared at him, the furrow between her eyebrows deepening.

"You don't need another dose of this rednecked Canuck kickin' around in there."

She snorted. "Logan, don't be an ass. You're the best behaved of the Collective – that's what I call y'all – though Inner-Logan does tend to get a bit more excited than the rest when I take a shower."

_Pervert._

He was a goddamn pervert.

A goddamn _lucky_ pervert who got to see Marie naked on a daily basis. Maybe even played an active part when she took off the gloves and spent some quality time with her pink parts.

The Wolverine's reaction to that mental image was immediate and visceral.

Logan groaned and sank down low into his seat.

Her giggles erupted into a full-blown belly laugh. "Gotcha!"

"You're drunk," he said, relieved the shadows and his chops hid the hot blush creeping up his face.

She leaned in, the motion pushing her breasts together and up.

"You wanna know what's your favorite part?"

"Your mouth," he shot back. "When it's shut."

She rolled her eyes, pursed her lips and blew him a kiss. "Sorry, sugar. But it does run a close second to my—"

She didn't have chance to finish her sentence because he clamped his hand over her mouth.

Strangely enough, he didn't feel the contact open up for several seconds. Maybe it was the alcohol she'd ingested, or the combination of her lipstick and the sweat on her skin from the evening's heat, but he had a full five seconds before he felt the pull start to happen. He was lucky enough to take his hand away in time before he started to go light-headed.

She just sat there, a stunned look on her face.

"Eyes," she whispered.

"What?"

"My eyes. You like them best. When I see the sun streaming in through my windows and Inner-Logan knows I've slept through one more night without waking up to the sound of my screams. When I see danger coming and Inner-Logan knows he can help me get out of the way in time."

He felt the blood draining from his face and it had nothing to do with the after-effects of touching her.

"But most of all," she continued, her eyes glassy with tears. "When I catch you looking at me and Inner-Logan knows what you're feeling and he knows I feel it, too."

He didn't say anything. What was there to say?

"He told me what you thought about that first time you saw me in that dive bar in Laughlin City. He told me what you felt that day you left me with your tag. He sure as hell broadcasted loud and clear what you wanted that night you came to my room and you thought I was sleeping. Do you remember that night, Logan?"

He nodded, unable to meet her eyes.

"And if Stryker hadn't come a knockin' on our door, I'm pretty sure I know what would have happened: nothing. Because I'm still a little girl in your eyes, sugar. And you know what? I've accepted that I always will be. So I'm doing the best I can with what I can have."

She swallowed the last of her beer and set the bottle back on the table.

"Bobby's not good enough for you," he finally said after a long silence.

She leaned in, all velvety white skin glowing through her sheer top and a trace of lilies of the valley clinging to her cleavage.

"But you don't think you are, either."

She draped her scarlet scarf around her neck and tucked her streaks behind her ears. She bent down and retrieved her purse and then looked him dead in the eye.

"Call me old-fashioned, Logan, but I'm not about to go chasing after a man who still thinks I'm jailbait even though I'm legally old enough to drink, smoke, and fuck my way from one side of this country to the other."

She got up from the table, slapped a twenty on the bar and left.

* * *

He caught up with her in the parking lot.

He told her he was worried about her getting into an accident as she tried to drive the Porsche through the streets of Salem after four beers.

She told him in no uncertain terms to go screw himself as she slid the key in the lock and turned it.

He slammed the door shut as soon as she opened it.

He'd failed to notice a few things tonight. Like the fact that she was wearing a pair of black leather pants that look like they'd been spray-painted onto her perfect ass and racehorse legs. Or that her top – the aforementioned black fishnet over a skimpy black spandex camisole – left little to his imagination and a lot to fuel his fantasy life.

_Fuck this bein' noble shit._

Better just get it outta his system before he exploded. He grabbed her arm and whipped her around, pressing her against the Porsche.

"I hate that little ice prickle because Scooter and Chuck and 'Ro think it's 'appropriate' for him to be interested in ya. I hate him even more because I see you puttin' on makeup and lipstick and I know that lucky sonuvabitch is gonna get to kiss that gorgeous mouth of yours, even if it's only for a few seconds. And I really fuckin' hate him because of the way your voice goes all soft and breathy when you say his goddamn name."

She lowered her eyes to the front of his white T-shirt, stained with grease and oil and dust, and found herself mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest, the harsh sound of his breathing. Her hips were pressed tight against his and she felt each of the individual metal buttons of his fly digging into the soft skin of her abdomen, the almost unbearable friction of his jean-clad thighs rubbing against her. The wanting was centered there, scalding her as it swirled low in her abdomen, flaring every second or so to radiate up her spine and out the tips of her fingers.

"Say my name."

"What?"

"My name." His voice was hoarse, crackling against her skin as he breathed her in. "Just once, say it like ya say his."

She looked at him, wondering if he had lost his mind.

A warning growl was all she got as he ducked his head to suck a bit of the skin on her neck through her scarf. She shuddered as she felt her knees give out.

He bent down and hauled her up against him, his big hands bringing her thighs up to wrap her legs around his waist. She crossed her ankles and gasped at the friction as he ground himself against her.

"Say my name, goddamn it!" he whispered in her ear, right before he licked the innermost curve with his tongue. Not enough to open contact, but more than enough to make her arch into him as she pumped her hips and moaned long and low into his shoulder.

"Put me down!" she pleaded in a whisper. "This isn't you. This isn't us!"

"You mean you don't like it?" he asked, his voice raw with a hint of mockery. "Say it, darlin'. Say it and I let you go right now."

She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a surprised groan of delight as his hand snaked up her torso to hold her in place while he went back for more of that sensitive spot on her neck. Then his hands were on her breasts and she was pressing herself into his palms, alternately gasping and whimpering as his fingers found her nipples and brought them into play.

_Not fair!_ she wanted to shout to anyone in hearing distance, but the parking lot was deserted. Hell, he could lay her down and fuck her blind on the hood of the car and there'd be nothing and nobody to interrupt them but the staccato barking of the junkyard hound dog three doors down.

How the hell had this happened?

At this point, she didn't much care. All she wanted was to get out of there and maybe, if she was lucky, get off in the privacy of her own room.

One thing was for sure and certain: none of her juvenile gropings with Bobby had ever made her feel like _this_.

Damn, he smelled good. Beer, cigars, musk, Irish Spring soap and clean laundry registered in her brain as he growled in her ear and nuzzled her hair as – God help her – she became an active participant in this crude seduction, working herself on him, panting and biting the thick pad of muscle under her mouth.

"Jesus Christ, babydoll!" he swore, his thumbs digging into the hollows of her hips as he moved with her, matching her frantic pace.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes!" she sobbed as she tipped her head back to rest on the roof of the car. "Don't stop! Please don't stop!"

Through her half-closed eyes she could watch him as he watched her.

Nothing was left of her mentor, her protector, her hero. He was all animal now. And while one side of her shivered in fear, another side of her – darker, deeper, more primal – was screaming for more. Begging for him to lay her down, slice open the center seam on her absolutely favorite pair of pants and –

"Logan! God, Logan!"

Her scream was mercifully muffled by the solidity of his cloth-covered shoulder as the fiery pressure burst inside of her, radiating in jolting, molten waves down her legs, up her spine, along her arms, as her fingers and toes and face tingled with ecstasy.

A few dazed seconds later she felt the sharp bite of his canines on the tendons of her neck and the reverberation of his harsh, hot growl as he collapsed against her, muttering her name as if it were both a curse and a benediction.

Marie opened her eyes to find Logan standing in front of her.

"You all right?" he asked.

She was sitting on the asphalt of the parking lot.

She checked her watch. No more than five minutes had passed.

"Huh?"

"You seemed to black out there for a minute, darlin'. Had to catch you before you fell and hit your head."

She checked her neck. No bite marks. _What the hell?!_

"Look, I've been all kinds of 'righteous asshole' tonight. What say I take you to the diner and treat you to a milkshake and a plate of chicken fingers?"

But she was most definitely coming down from the great-granddaddy of all orgasms. Blood was still throbbing between her legs and if she moved too suddenly, she triggered another mini-blissfest.

_Just the first of many darlin'._

It was then that she felt him.

The Wolverine…quieting inside of her psyche, the nerve pathways he so recently stimulated finally calming down.

_Any way you want it, I'm ready._

She'd absorbed him, for the third time. But this time around, she'd taken the animal into herself, not the man. And he certainly didn't see her as a child anymore.

_Just be sure you know what you're askin' for._

She took the hand Logan offered her and stood up.

"Yes. Food. Good idea."

"I'm parked over there." He gave her a half-cocked smile and gestured with his thumb to his means of transportation. She should have guessed he would have swiped Scott's bike.

He climbed on and she swung a leg over and snuggled up against him.

"Logan?" she whispered.

"Hmmm?"

"Nothin', sugar. Just wanted to say your name."

He started the bike and revved the engine.

_You and me, just around midnight. I'll be waitin', babydoll._

She shivered in the eighty-degree heat and held on.

* * *

Author Notes:

Just for the record, it's the Wolverine who interrupted this psychodrama and shagged Marie. I had nothing to do with it. He basically tapped me on the shoulder, told me to move over and then wrote the parking lot scene.

Who knew the man could type? Or that he had such a smutty imagination?

A lot of this came about from listening to my _Hits From Hell_ tape over New Year's. I was recovering from the flu, driving in the car and listening to Meat Loaf wailing at the top of his lungs when the question came to me: what is it really like for the Wolverine to be in there with Logan? Does he ever feel like he can't get out? Like he can't escape?

And then came the seed, that of Logan trying to comfort Marie and the Wolverine trying to come on to her. You see, the Wolverine is the side of Logan that he relies on in times of trouble, but also fears because of his animalistic personality.

I myself don't see the Wolverine as pure animal. He's more of an atavism, a throwback to the days when a man could sense when a woman wanted him and acted on it. I've been lucky enough to meet a few guys like that during my lifetime. It's intense, let me tell you.

So here's my little love letter to the Wolverine in all his bad-boy, lustful glory.

"All Revved Up..." is one of my favorite tracks from _Bat Out of Hell_, which is the first album I ever remember listening to. It came out the year I was born (1977) and this song is a hot, sweaty summer night in a dive bar in the wrong section of town where a good girl had the luck to meet up with a bad boy and get shook up and stripped down.

Ahhh...my kind of rock 'n roll.

The milkshake is a nod to Diebin's "On Milkshakes and Marie" and the leather pants are from Sare Liz's "Viscosity" series. Thanks for the inspiration, ladies!


End file.
